


Forgetting's an Art - Rewrite

by buckybleeds



Series: Alphabet Soup [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 404 error consent not found, Consent Issues, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Penetration, Drooling, Drugged Sex, Fisting, HYDRA Husbands, HYDRA Trash Party, I can't emphasize enough how rapey this is, M/M, The deadest of dead doves, Touch Starved Steve Rogers, double fisting, i warned you you can't say shit, it's exactly as bad as it sounds, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 18:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: Brock and Jack talk to Steve about the boundaries they pushed in their last encounter.And by talk I mean they drug Steve's coffee.A re-written version of this: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398019





	Forgetting's an Art - Rewrite

**Author's Note:**

> This is a straight re-write of Forgetting's an Art (https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398019) that just got a lot more comprehensive because I felt like the original fic was too rushed. 
> 
> Might help to have read Chain of Command but you can probably get away without it.
> 
> Also. This is like.  
SO MUCH trash.  
Last chance to bail.  
It's not pretty.

Brock Rumlow flopped down onto his scuffed couch and pressed his StarkPhone against his ear.

The dumb burring on the other end had already cycled to voicemail twice, which was infuriating in his inebriation.

What kind of self-respecting 27-year-old was asleep at 2 a.m. on a Friday?

Finally, _finally _there was a click as the call connected.

"S'matter? Do I need to suit up?"

The kid sounded sleep-drunk and breathless. He was probably wide-eyed and confused, tangled in sheets. Brock tried to figure out whether it was sexier if Rogers slept nude or in a pair of the tiny briefs he favored. Brock tried to figure out if he could convince Rogers to put on a pair of pink lace panties at some point.

"Rumlow?"

He marked that down as a "maybe" in his head - Rogers got embarrassed easily but he liked being embarrassed, got off on being ashamed of himself. So maybe. Brock could ask and Rogers would blush like a sunset and Brock could tease a little scrap of fabric up over those big hard thighs and appreciate the image just long enough to commit it to memory before he ripped them off and fucked Rogers through the mattress.

"Rumlow, where's the call, where am I meeting you?" Rogers asked, an edge beginning to slip into his voice.

"Oh so that's how it is," Brock sneered, "you don't talk to me for a week and suddenly you're hot to trot, huh?"

Brock was irritated. He was hard and hot and ready but he wasn't going to be able to do anything himself tonight, not with the way he'd been drinking. He wanted Rogers. But Rogers was a stuck-up little prick who gave him the cold shoulder. And now he was gagging for it and maybe Rumlow wanted to hear him ask for it a little.

"Brock," the sleep had faded from his voice, he sounded like a field commander now. Hot. "What's the emergency?"

"No emergency," he said. His resolve to make Rogers ask for it cracked like an egg under a tank tread in the face of his uncooperative erection. "I just wanted to see if you were free tonight. I missed you."

Rogers didn't say anything.

"So, are you?" Brock was beginning to realize he was more drunk than he'd thought he was the first time he dialed Rogers number. "Free, I mean?"

"Are you telling me that you're using your STRIKE phone to booty call Captain America, Rumlow?"

Oh. Okay. He was much more drunk than he'd thought.

"Whoops," he said, and the call disconnected.

Brock dug through the large and exciting variety of pockets on his tac pants until he came up with his personal phone and pulled up Rogers' number.

He answered much faster this time, at least.

"I'm pissed at you," he said, skipping over greetings, pleasantries, and any semblance of being a civilized and productive member of society, in Brock's opinion.

"Who the fuck taught you what a booty call is?" If Captain Goddamned America could be rude everyone else had a free pass.

"What do you want?"

"I was feeling lonely," Brock whined. His dick was losing interest the longer this took and he wasn't ready to go to bed without rubbing one out. "I wanna talk. Missed you."

"Yeah? So talk."

His brain stalled. He hadn't actually planned to talk. More to listen and flog himself into oblivion.

"I was hoping you could. Like help me out, maybe."

"Help how?"

"I _miss _you. Want you." And he did, however he could have him. Rogers was addictive, even if he was insufferable.

"What am I not getting here?"

God, he was really gonna make him spell it out, wasn't he?

"I'm lonely, Rogers. Help me out. Maybe tell me what it was like working the docks again or something. You're a clever boy, get onboard."

Steve had let that slip once in bed, that the first time he'd gone down on anyone it had been for two dollars to buy groceries and that once he'd found a steady way to pay rent he wasn't going to turn his nose up at it. Brock liked to turn that picture over in his head - righteous Steve Rogers sixteen years old and using his pink mouth to pay for dinner. Skinny and desperate and with his too-long blonde hair gripped in a fist as someone looming and dirty pulled him down over a mouthful that was too big for him to handle. The thought of Rogers on his knees and helpless as a last bulwark against starvation got Brock's prick wet and needy like nothing else.

"Oh, that's what this is about," Rogers' voice dropped a register, turning creamy and warm. "You wanted to hear a story, huh?"

Brock was perking up again. Fucking Rogers. He could be pornographic at the drop of a hat and it was one of the most infuriating things about him.

"I like it when you talk me off, sugar. You gotta voice for it."

Steve chuckled.

"You got your dick in your hand, big guy?"

Brock scrambled to unzip his tac pants (why did these things have to have so many fucking buckles?) and cram his free hand down the front of his boxers.

"I do now, sugar. What next?"

"Alright," Steve purred, "really slowly, take your time, and sit down at your computer. Open up your browser," that purr was turning into something louder and sharper, "go to pornhub, and learn to take care of yourself like a goddamned adult!"

The phone disconnected again.

Brock dialed again. Who the fuck did Rogers think he was, telling Brock to act like an adult? Brock had been running ops since Rogers had been in diapers. Except for the freezing thing. And in reverse? Technically? Steve was a fucking baby was the point, regardless of if he was in his nineties chronologically speaking.

"Fucking what," Rogers shouted when he picked up.

"I just wanna know exactly what crawled up your ass and died, Princess."

"Fucking Rollins did, dipshit," Rogers roared and the line went dead again.

Oh. _Oh_. That's right.

Fuck. Brock was never drinking Jagermeister again.

Outside of STRIKE drills he hadn't seen Rogers since their encounter with Rollins, and while Brock's dick perked up a little in his hand just at the thought of it he had to do some damage control right now. _Fuck_, he knew he'd lost count some time around six drinks in but how far had he gotten that even for a second he'd forgotten the transcendentally gorgeous picture of Steve Rogers squirming and crying on Jack's cock?

He dialed again.

"I'm turning my phone off and going back to sleep."

"Aww, sugar, but then you might miss it when one of your friends calls."

"Fuck you, Brock."

Oof. Okay. Everyone knew that Rogers didn't have any friends. That was a low blow and not damage control at all. Brock scrambled to make up for it.

"Look, Steve, I'm sorry. I'm a little drunk right now and I'm a little lost here. I thought we were all good and this is the first I'm hearing that we're not. Are you okay?"

He and Rogers hadn't exactly been touchy-feely lovebirds before Jack joined in. It wasn't at all unusual to go a week without talking and then hook up in a storage closet. He could play this off as a surprise.

"Steve? Talk to me, man."

A huff came through the phone.

"Tell me what's going through your head."

Rogers made a noise that could have been either a laugh or a sob. Whatever it was was manic, more unhinged than Brock had ever heard him.

Rogers had super hearing as well as super strength. That meant that Brock had to be super quiet as he adjusted his grip on himself. Was Rogers sitting on the edge of the bed, hair tousled and clutching his phone in the dark? Was he looking down at his feet or looking up at the ceiling to keep the water in his eyes from running down his face? Had he pulled a blanket around his shoulders? Brock hoped so, chewing on that picture as he stroked himself.

After they'd been with Rollins Rogers had been nearly comatose with over-stimulation. Brock had seen him like that after an op, non-verbal and shaky. It usually meant he needed to eat about half of a horse. When Rollins had pulled out and left the super soldier bleeding they hadn't fed him or treated him, they'd held him, wrapped him up in their mutual warmth and the white rims around his eyes eventually disappeared as he settled into a droopy, sleepy stupor. Jack had carefully petted Rogers' thick arms and tickled at his neck, little soft touches, until he was asleep. Brock had grinned at Jack over the big, unconscious body and waggled an empty syringe at his second-in-command. He'd been pliant and heavy under the tranquilizers, uncaring if Brock slapped his face or squeezed his tits. They'd made sure he came back to himself clothed again, a pad scavenged from under Brock's sink and left behind three girlfriends ago wadded in his crack to keep him from dripping. Jack had pulled a throw around his shoulders and kept a cup of hot tea in his hands and they'd talked about unimportant bullshit until Rogers had it together enough to keep his hand around his cup without any help. After that the conversation had shifted to what a nice time they'd all had, and how much they'd all enjoyed it, and how they were so glad they'd talked about their _feelings _after and Brock had gotten hard again in his pants watching Rogers' pretty face get all scrambled trying to mask his confusion. Jack had kissed his cheek and Brock had nipped his ear before they sent him out the door on his merry way home.

So Brock couldn't help but wonder. Was Steve wrapped up in a blanket? Was he holding a warm drink? Was he staring off into the middle distance with a frown on his pretty face while he tried to figure out how he felt? How was he taking care of himself without Jack and Brock looking after him?

If he was crying or cackling into the phone he probably wasn't doing so hot, he probably needed some help, needed someone big and strong to take care of him. Needed someone older and more experienced to guide him.

"Honey, you're worrying me." He made his voice as low and gentle as he could, trying to project fraternal concern instead of the savage arousal that was filling his belly. "Steve, are you okay?"

That was a sniffle. He was sure of it. He could imagine Rogers' face getting pink and that soft mouth quivering; he remember Rogers' shaking thighs traced with rivulets of blood as Jack tore him open - the two pictures blurred in his mind and he wondered again - was Steve on his knees? Huddled in his shower? Staring blindly through the kitchen window? Helpless on the floor with a blanket around his shoulders and his legs uselessly folded beneath him?

"Honey, are you okay? Did we hurt you?"

The breath Steve took stuttered and sounded wet.

"I know we're rough on each other but you have to know I'd never want to hurt you, baby. You know that, right?"

Another one of those wet breaths.

"You're worrying me, kid. So you need me to come over?"

"No." It was abrupt and sharp.

"Are you sure? No agenda or anything, I just wanna check on you, you don't sound so good."

Steve swallowed audibly.

"Brock, you didn't do a great job of listening the last time I said 'no' to you, I'm gonna need you to listen to me now."

It was hard to keep his hand moving at its slow pace after that.

Rogers knew.

Rogers knew that they'd ignored him. Somewhere in his red, white, and blue pea-brain Captain Goddamned America was a scared little kid because he'd wanted the bad thing to stop and it hadn't. And he fucking knew, he knew that the people in bed with him should have listened.

And Brock was going to get away with it.

Rogers was still talking to him, still negotiating with him, still asking him to _respect _his _wishes _and that wasn't what you did if you were going to tell anyone what had happened to you. You didn't get raped and ask your rapist to _give me some space please_ if you were going to run off and tell your superhero friends. Rogers was already holding in his guilt and regret stopped up deep inside of him where it would fester and scab and make it that much harder to open up to anyone who might actually help him.

And if he kept it quiet one time he'd keep it quiet a second time. And a third. And a tenth. And a fiftieth.

"Oh, god, Steve, I didn't - oh, honey, you know that's - fuck - I didn't realize you were thinking of it like that. I thought you liked it, didn't you?"

Rogers wasn't sobbing, which was a shame, but he was breathing hard and his voice was thick with tears when he spoke.

"I - I think maybe I did like it. But I wanted you to stop. I said so."

"Baby, if you want me to hang up right now I will. If you never wanna talk to me again I get it. I'm so sorry, I don't even know how you're talking to me now if you feel like we were taking advantage of you."

"I still wanna see you, I think," he said, too quickly, scared of being left alone. Scared of being abandoned by one of the few people who spoke to him in the strange time he lived in. More scared of being alone in the dark than alone with a man who had watched him crying for the pain to stop and done nothing. "I know you didn't mean to do it like that."

Rogers was a terrible liar, but scared and so nice. He was a nice all-American boy who wouldn't want to hurt your feelings, wouldn't want to accuse you of something, wouldn't want to call you out if you'd spent even a second of your time treating him even slightly better than a starving, beaten dog in an alley would expect to be treated.

If he was going to drop Brock he'd want to let him down easy, which meant he'd never be so direct that Brock couldn't reasonably weasel his way back in. Brock loved nice people; they were so easy to train.

"I'm so glad you know I didn't mean to hurt you. Do you want me to keep this between us in the future then? Keep Jack out of it?"

"Well," Rogers coughed and went silent for a moment. "I. I don't know. There was a - there were parts I liked with Jack."

"Tell me about what you didn't like, sweetheart," Brock wanted to hear Rogers say it again, wanted him to admit again what they'd done to him before he asked for them to do it again.

"You didn't stop. I - I wanted you to stop. I said it was too much. I _said_. And you both kept going anyway."

Brock had to take his hand off his cock at the lightning bolt of sensation that sent through him. Steve hadn't _said_, he had _begged _for them to stop with his face red and his mouth dripping tears and cum and snot. It was one of the most stunning things Brock had ever seen and thinking about it made the low, deep sensation building inside of him feel sharp and electric - so he let go and bit his lip and swallowed down the whine he wanted to let out; he wanted to keep this going.

"We can talk to Jackie, honey. If you can trust us again we can work on that, make sure it never happens again. We've gotta be open, communicate. What else didn't you like?"

Steve's deep voice shifted to a high, thin whisper.

"It hurt. Brock, it hurt really, really bad."

"Oh, oh sweetheart, I'm so sorry," if Rogers kept whimpering like that maybe Brock wouldn't be able to stave off his building orgasm even if he kept his hands off himself. "Are you sure you don't want me to tell Jackie it was a one-time thing?"

"No," his voice took on that tone that meant he was making the Captain Goddamned America face, feeling high and mighty about something. "No, he was with you first, Brock. He makes you happy. I want to try to make this work for all of us. If that's what you want."

God bless Rogers' sweet, stupid, blonde little head. That sense of fair play was going to get him killed someday.

"Don't bend over backwards just to make me happy; what you want matters." Except that it didn't, and saying that it did would make Rogers do everything he possibly could to shrink himself and take up less space and bury his own wants under the whims of the people around him. Telling Rogers not to bend over backwards was like triple-dog-daring him to put himself out for you. He was just so fucking nice. "Did you even like being with him?"

Steve hesitated.

One thing that Brock thought everyone should know about Rogers, that should have gone in the handler's manual the instant he was defrosted, that should have been noted in word search activity puzzles on the backs of Americ-Os Cereal boxes across the nation: that motherfucker wouldn't wait a single nanosecond to get on his high horse and say something he felt was True and Right.

So if he was hesitating it was because he thought that something was wrong.

Most especially because he thought _he _was doing something wrong.

"I don't know. It. It hurt but - " if Rogers was stuttering either he was having a deep internal crisis or had basically already bled to death. "I don't know. I don't have the words for it."

"That doesn't help me too much, baby. C'mon, I wanna talk about this, get clear on it so we don't make any mistakes in the future."

"Physically it was. God, I don't know if I can do that again, it was too much." He sounded like he was choking on the words, loathe to admit that there was anything he couldn't do. Perfect.

Brock made his voice low and sweet and gentle.

"That's okay, baby, Jack will understand. He's used to it."

Silence. Rogers shut up and Brock could practically see him chewing that fat pink lip as he mulled that over, connecting the dots and understanding that if the Star-Spangled Man With A Plan couldn't take Rollins there was no chance of any unenhanced human being taking him. Making Rogers probably the one person that Jack had been with in god knows how long, making Jack a poor, lost, lonely, touch-starved tough-guy, which meant -

"It was a lot. Overwhelming. But maybe we could try again. Go slow."

Nice people. Unbelievable how easy it was to use them.

"Maybe you'd feel better if we had you on top? Put you in control?"

"Um," Rogers said, hesitating again. Sure that he was wrong, sure that he was doing something bad because otherwise he'd just say whatever his stubborn little heart wanted. "I kinda liked it when I didn't have control, actually."

Brock tried to sound frustrated as he sighed through a smile.

"I'm sorry, is there something here that I'm missing? I thought you wanted us to listen to you but now you're saying you don't want to be in control."

"I don't know, I don't know," Rogers wasn't exactly whining but he sounded ashamed and confused. "It hurt and I didn't want it but I liked how it felt when he - fuck. I don't know how to say - fuck." Could blushing be audible? Brock was certain that Rogers' face was pink and steaming like a teakettle as he soldiered on. "I liked it when Rollins - shit. I liked it when he made me feel stupid. I liked it when he made choices for me. But I - I said it was too much."

Sooner or later his need to bait Rogers was probably going to get him killed but right now it just had his dick drooling as he thanked the lord for blessing him with the presence of nice people.

Nice people from the 1940s. Nice people who had missed out on all those HR hotbutton topics like consent and victim blaming. Nice people who wanted to please people, who wanted people to like them, who wanted friends. Nice people who thought everything was their responsibility, that if something went wrong it must be a failing on their part. Nice people who barely understood the internet and wouldn't think to google the words for the funny feeling they got when you called them a useless hole and made them cry when they came so you didn't have to worry about them wanting to be safe and sane. Brock loved nice people. They were so, so easy to use.

"Steve," Brock tried to sound like he was a tired pre-school teacher explaining the obvious to a particularly slow toddler. "you know you could have stopped us at any time. I liked what we were doing but I know it's a game. It's not supposed to actually hurt you. If you really wanted us to stop why didn't you push us off?"

"I know I could have."

"That's not an answer, honey. You could have stopped it. Why didn't you? How were we supposed to know?"

"I don't know," he sounded so lost, so hopelessly young. Brock felt his nuts drawing up tight against him and carefully closed his fist around his cock to relieve some pressure without shooting off.

"Baby, you're all messed up, I'm coming over."

"Brock," and he sounded a little more like Captain America there, less like a boy scout in the woods without a compass. "I really don't think that's a good idea. I'll call you when I want to talk about this again."

"Steve," if Rogers could put on the Cap voice Brock could put on the Commander Rumlow voice, "I'm worried about you. You're confused and it's my fault and I'm going to come over and take care of you."

"I'll call you after the weekend," Rogers countered.

"If you really didn't want me over you could have hung up," Brock snapped, before letting his voice settle into something kinder. "You're not so good at asking for help, champ. I've got you, I want to help, I want to take care of my boy. I'll see you in half an hour, Stevie."

He hung up before Rogers could beat him to it and started thinking about baseball. He wanted to be fresh when he got to Steve's place, primed to go.

He called Jack and tried to wipe the stupid grin off his face while he waited.

***

If Steve didn't get his breathing under control in the next thirty seconds he was going to start screaming and never quit.

He didn't want Brock coming over, he had wanted Jack to stop, and logically he knew that saying so should have been enough to get through to them but it was like he could never hit on the right combination of words to get them to take him seriously.

_You'll never find the right words if they're set on ignoring you, pal._

God, sometimes he missed Bucky so much that it burned. That didn't mean it was helpful to have his dead friend's voice in his head telling him things that he already knew.

He _had _hung up on Brock. Several times. He _had _tried to pull away from Jack. But he couldn't just turn his augmented strength on regular people, even if they were STRIKE commandos.

He shouldn't have to justify himself. He shouldn't have to create an elaborate argument to defend his requests. You were supposed to listen when people told you no.

Steve stood up from the edge of his rumpled bed and turned on a light. He threw on a clean pair of soft joggers and a long-sleeved tee shirt. If Brock did show up Steve wanted to be wearing more than his boxers.

Just because it was more dignified. More conducive to a conversation. Not because he wanted to cover up.

He considered his door.

Brock, being his field commander, friend, and a guy he cheerfully got fucked by from time to time, had a key to the main lock and the deadbolt. The chain lock was pathetic and he had accidentally ripped it off the wall a week ago.

_Yeah, because your hands were shaking too hard to use it right when you saw that you'd bled through your jeans._

Steve eyed his living room. He could pile furniture in front of the door if he wanted to look exactly as crazy as he felt.

He picked up his phone.

There were only a handful of numbers in it. He almost never called them.

He could see if Natasha would let him come over for a night. That'd go great, asking Black Widow if he could crash on her couch because otherwise the coworker he sometimes fucked might want to show up and have a conversation.

Calling Tony was out. Bruce could be on a wholly different continent, trying to manage his own stress and with no need to take on the burden of Steve's misplaced anxieties.

And that was it. All the other numbers were STRIKE, unless he felt like asking the lady at the pizza place down the street to come run interference for him.

Pathetic.

Hating himself, he dialed Natasha and got a prompt message that the subscriber he was trying to reach was not available.

He could try to lock the door and go back to sleep. Maybe Brock wouldn't show up and Steve could go back to being pissed instead of confused.

_You're not confused. You're scared. And you should be. Call Tony._

He set down his phone and picked up his keys. If Brock did show up Steve didn't want to be nervously anticipating him on the couch, like a girl stuck at home waiting for her date. So screw it. It was almost late enough to be early. Steve put on a pot of coffee and went for a run.

Maybe it would chase away some of the ghosts in his head.

Three miles in the concerns that had seemed so big when Brock woke him up from a dead sleep seemed smaller, like he'd blown them out of proportion.

It was a good thing that Brock wanted to come over and make nice. It was what Steve had wanted a week ago, someone to explain. Someone to make it make sense, to say that Steve was making a big deal out of nothing, that there was just a miscommunication, that they didn't mean to, that it was a mistake.

_Funny kind of mistake, one that keeps going._

And it was kind of sweet that the older man was being so pushy about it. Steve knew that Brock worried about him, thought he was green and reckless. Knew that he was bad at asking for help, showing when he was wounded. This was just another way the Commander was looking out for his team, was all.

Steve made his way back to his building and tromped upstairs, trying not to think about what it meant if he walked in and found Brock sitting in his kitchen. If he was or wasn't there it wasn't a big deal. If he backed off and didn't show up he was just doing what Steve asked, respecting his space, not brushing him off or leaving him alone to stew in his thoughts. If he showed up it didn't mean he was ignoring Steve again, it meant that he was worried for his friend and teammate and reaching out, like people did in this century - wanting to talk instead of stoically pretending nothing bad had ever happened. And they'd already done some talking and that was good, right? They'd gotten through the really nasty first push of talking and now it would just be filling in the details. Steve could handle that.

What he couldn't handle was that he didn't walk in and find Rumlow. He found Rollins.

Time was a funny thing to a ninety-five-year-old on-again-off-again ice cube of a super soldier.

Steve knew, logically, that he didn't stand in the doorway like a stunned rabbit for very long but that's not how it felt.

It felt like forever.

Rollins had been on the couch, sitting with his hands between his knees, staring down the door.

He'd been waiting.

Waiting for Steve.

And it felt like forever before he blinked his bright green eyes and Steve could breathe again.

Of course Rollins was waiting for him. Rumlow was waiting for him too. He had left. Anyone coming to see him would have had to wait.

"Uh," Steve managed to say, still holding his keys in his hand and letting his eyes dart around the room like he was worried Mercer and Murphy were hiding behind a door or under the kitchen table. Irrationally. Like he expected an ambush. Like he was the kind of guy who had considered shoving bookcases in front of a door so he wouldn't have to talk to a man who was supposed to be his friend. Steve took a breath. "Um. Hi, Jack."

Rumlow was next to him, their shoulders touching on Steve's couch. He looked concerned. Brock. Brock looked concerned, his face drawn down like a hound dog, all mopey eyebrows and hollow cheeks.

Jack took in Steve's hesitancy and frowned. His hand came up and solidly thwacked into the back of Brock's head.

"Fucking Christ what was that for," Brock hissed, hangdog face chased away by the glare he directed at Jack.

"You asshole," Jack said, standing up. "You didn't tell him I was coming, did you?" He swatted at Brock's ear.

"Ow! Hey!"

Jack was gathering a coat up that had been hanging over the back of the couch and Steve felt like he was watching a play, stepping outside of himself on his own welcome mat while Brock and Jack griped at each other.

"This is exactly the kind of thing I meant when I brought up building trust, jackass," Jack snapped at Brock before he turned to face Steve.

"I'm sorry, I had no idea he hadn't told you that he was bringing me. My mistake, give me a call if you want to talk to me for any reason." He was attempting to sidestep Steve, trying to get to the hallway behind him, which might have worked if Steve's shoulders didn't fill the doorframe.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes as hard as he could. He hadn't had a headache in seventy years. Maybe he'd have one today.

"You can stay. Come on in," he said, finally shutting the door behind himself and dropping his keys on the counter.

Jack vacillated.

"It's not a problem, I can leave. You're in charge here."

Steve laughed. It came out a little wild. He hadn't been in charge of anything in his life since Bucky had been drafted, Rollins stepping out because he'd surprised Steve wasn't going to change that.

"C'mon, both of you," he waved toward the kitchen. "There's coffee."

He focused on pulling three cups out of the cabinet and on how his hands didn't shake while he poured. He focused on pulling out spoons and sugar and not on how he could hear exactly where Brock was standing and could smell that Jack's hair was still damp from showering before he'd come over here. He focused on relaxing his shoulders and not the way that Jack was looking at him as he accepted the drink that Steve passed over to him.

"Brock said he was worried about you, but you don't really seem to be in the mood to explore your feelings at four in the morning," Rollins said with a wry smile, looking pointedly at Steve's crossed arms and closed posture. "Do you want to talk or do you want us to go?"

Steve shrugged one sculpted shoulder and raised his cup to his lips. He felt like his apartment was too small for the three of them, an old coat straining at the seams with the tension between them.

"I don't know what I want," he said. "I didn't want Brock to come in the first place but now that you're both here I don't want to be alone. I want to go back to sleep. I want to knock down a wall. I want you to leave me alone," he settled his cup on the counter and ran his hands through his hair. "Why did you come?"

Rollins reached out a hand to Steve, who considered for a long moment before he took it. Rollins' hand was broad and warm, and simply the feel of the callused palm nearly took Steve's breath away.

This is why he hadn't hung up on Brock, why he'd welcomed in these men into his space after they'd hurt him. Because he remembered the blood they'd left on him, but more than that he remembered the feeling of a warm, rough hand gently cupping his cheek and a stubbled chin chafing his throat.

So he let himself be pathetic, let himself take the hand Rollins offered and let himself be comforted by it.

"I came over because I like you," Rollins was saying, projecting sincerity and drawing Steve closer by the hand he held. "I liked being with you, but that doesn't matter if you're hurting. If you're hurting all I care about is making you feel better, baby."

Steve looked away and felt another hand settle on his chest before sliding up to his jaw. Rollins used a light touch on his chin to tilt Steve's face up until their eyes met again. Steve realized that he was shivering.

"You want me to take care of you, baby?"

Steve bit his lip.

"I don't know why I feel like this around you."

That was a lie. He knew why he felt like this; he was dizzy and frantic and lost because a big man with dark hair and a wicked smile was looking at him like he was made of rubies. He was flushed and half-hard in his shorts because someone from this strange future was touching him like they wanted him instead of like a gilded idol. He felt like this because he was so lonely it was suffocating him and if his STRIKE commandos weren't good men at least they were better company than the memories that haunted the empty side of his bed.

"What do you feel like?"

"Confused." That was one way of putting it. Easier than the real words.

"Is it a bad feeling?" Rollins was gently moving a hand through Steve's hair, the other hand had migrated to his trim waist, long finger just brushing the upper curve of his ass.

"Not bad. Just. Strange. Warm. Nothing in the future is warm."

"It's not?" Rollins was brushing a kiss against his forehead and Steve was closing his eyes, letting himself melt into the touch.

"No. It's cold here all the time."

***

Brock Rumlow was a proud man. He knew his worth and his value, was aware of his skills and talents. He was useful, clever, resourceful, and vicious.

He also knew when he was outclassed and knew to keep his big mouth shut when Jack was working his magic.

Watching Jack take the reins of the situation away from Rogers was like watching a snake hypnotize a baby bird. Rogers had gone from a twitching bundle of nerves to sluggish compliance all for a couple of pleasant touches and a listening ear.

Brock was a good liar out of necessity - he had to lie well enough to pass muster at an intelligence agency so he had to be damned good, but it wasn't like he enjoyed it or anything.

Jack, however, was a master manipulator and he did it for sheer love of the game.

Brock watched him wrap his hands around Rogers, cradling his ass and tipping up his chin like he was a fainting schoolgirl instead of Captain Goddamned America. Brock watched Rogers' eyes drift shut and saw Jack's fingers flutter twice in a silent signal.

Even if you were a master manipulator it never hurt to have an ace or two up your sleeve. When Jack let him know that Rogers' attention wasn't going to wander Brock quickly and unobtrusively emptied a small envelope of reddish powder into the coffee cup the blond had set aside before letting Jack eclipse his focus.

It had been a long day already; in fact the previous day had never ended. He hadn't had a good meal, he hadn't had a shower or any sleep. Brock was probably going to have a hell of a hangover at some point, but for the moment he was having a great day.

***

"Let's go sit down someplace comfortable."

Steve wobbled when Jack stepped away from him and hated himself for it. He hated himself for not turning Brock and Jack away, he hated himself for how stupid and lost he got when one of them touched him, he hated himself for thinking he might drop to his knees and let Rollins try to stuff his impossible cock down his throat if he promised Steve a hug afterwards.

This was bad. This was all very bad. He wanted to be furious with these men, who had hurt him and used him and ignored him when he begged them to stop but he couldn't sustain his anger when his skin ached for them to touch him, when all he wanted was to keep feeling their hands on him.

Brock and Rollins moved to the living room, Steve picked up his coffee and followed and he hated himself when he nearly sobbed in relief to see that Rollins left a space next to himself on the couch and was pointedly waiting for Steve to fill it.

"I want you to tell me how you feel about what we did the last time we were together. Brock has said a few things but I want to hear it from you."

Rollins sipped his coffee and Steve mirrored the action before he spoke, letting the bitter drink roll through his mouth and warm his throat.

"I liked some of what happened and I didn't like some of it. I liked you you talked to me. How you talked down to me, I mean. I ended up liking how you got me off."

"Well, that's a good start," Jack said, smiling charmingly. "I liked those things too, and I don't think Brock had any complaints."

Brock grinned and shrugged lazily, putting an arm on the back of the couch as he leaned past Rollins so he could look right at Steve.

"No, I had a pretty good time - 'swhy I wanna do what we can to do it again."

Rollins frowned and smacked lightly at Brock's knee. "That's getting a little ahead of ourselves. I want to hear what you didn't like too."

Steve fiddled with his mug and took another sip before he spoke. Rollins put a warm, wide hand on his thigh and rubbed it encouragingly, making Steve suck in a startled breath.

"You're, um," His eyes met Rollins' for half a second before his gaze skittered away, "you're really big. And it hurt when you were, uh. Taking you. It hurt."

He hated himself. He had always hated himself. The US Government blew him up like a balloon and he was still weak and broken and now he was going to have to admit it in front of these men who he worked with, these men he wanted here, these men who he wanted to keep touching him, just for a little while. And they were going to know he was weak and terrified and they were going to leave and _he kind of wanted them to leave, goddamnit_, but Rollins' hand was warm on his leg and it was so cold now, this century was so cold.

"And when I said it was too much you didn't listen. And that scared me."

"But didn't you like it, in the end?" Rollins looked concerned and confused. His hand was still moving over Steve's sweats, little soothing motions that he found sickeningly reassuring. Steve had started talking and they hadn't left. They were going to try to understand. They weren't going to walk away from him because of this.

"I did. I just didn't like what led there."

"Sweetheart," Rollins said, "I thought you just needed a minute. Once you caught your breath you seemed okay. If you were scared why didn't you stop me?"

Steve growled in frustration and made himself stand up, moving away from the comfort of Jack's warmth.

"You have no idea how hard it is to be like this," he groaned, waving at himself. "You don't know what kind of control I have to have every minute to make sure I'm not killing everyone around me. Here, look," he picked up his thick, ceramic mug and tossed back the contents. He held the heavy cup in his hand and casually crushed it to pieces in his fist, letting fragments rain down on the coffee table before he opened his hand and showed the grit that was all that remained.

Brock, the idiot, moaned, and Steve glared at him, crossing his arms. Defensive. Weak. Stupid.

"Yeah, you like that," he barked at Brock. "Think that's hot? Imagine it was your skull. I have nightmares about that kind of thing."

Steve dropped back to his seat and put his head in his hands. "I can't just shove you off if you're hurting me because even if you're hurting me I don't want to put you through a fucking wall. I've gotta be careful."

His thoughts were running around each other, making circles in his mind. They didn't understand. Nobody ever understood. He looked up, opening his mouth to speak again but couldn't force any more words out.

Rollins turned in his seat and wrapped Steve in a hug, holding Steve's head to his chest, where he froze at the unexpected contact.

"You're not gonna break us, baby. We're not stupid, we know how strong you are, we would never let it get that far," Jack kissed Steve's sweating temple and petted at his hair. "If you still want to try this thing we'll just have to be more careful in the future. But for right now, I'm sorry we scared you, baby boy."

Steve was stalled out. His brain went offline when Jack's arms wrapped around him and was coming back up in safe mode. His heart rate spiked and the world got brighter and he had just enough processing power to realize that something didn't seem quite right, but before he could pinpoint the source of his unease he noticed his skin had started to feel too warm and too tight, like he had pulled open an oven in the middle of a cold kitchen.

He realized that Rollins was talking, didn't quite remember when that had started.

" - baby? You okay?"

" 'Mfine," Steve said. Jack wasn't just petting his hair now, he was tugging at it a little as he stroked it. His other hand was low on Steve's back. It felt amazing, like fur and electricity and rose petals.

"My good baby boy. You just melt when someone gets their hands on you, huh?"

Steve whined and Rollins gathered a fistful of his short hair to pull his head back.

"Sweet. You're so damn sweet, honey. You like this?"

He loved this. This was like summer, like breathing. Like there was no such thing as loneliness.

"Say you like it, baby."

"like it," was the best he could do. He couldn't focus on words, just the hot fingers pressing up under his shirt and pulling harder and harder at his hair.

"You want more, baby?" Rollins was sucking at the skin over his adam's apple; Steve was spread over his lap and couldn't remember getting there.

"Yes, more."

"You want me to fuck you again, baby? Let you ride me this time?"

Steve whined louder. He felt hazy and blurred but the memory of pulling a blood-drenched sanitary pad out of his underwear after last time made the world momentarily sharper.

He didn't want that. He wanted them to touch him, hold him, call him filthy names and make him forget about the empty side of his bed, but he didn't want that.

He opened his mouth but lost the words he was going to say as his pants were tugged down off his hips. Rollins had one hand in Steve's hair and the other pinching a pale pink nipple so that must be Brock's fingers at his hole, pushing lube into him - making him wet and feeling him quiver.

"It hurt," Steve ground out, keeping the memory of bleeding for hours at the forefront of his thoughts, wanting to know it had happened, wanting to trust himself and his memory, willing them to understand. Brock's fingers crooked against his prostate and he moaned, losing his train of thought when Rollins' thick fingers pressed into his open mouth.

"Baby boy, you look so good split open, I can make it feel so good for you."

Brock had three fingers inside of Steve, coring him open while Rollins teased his nipples from soft, pink things to angry points of red. His hand left Steve's hair and pressed against his throat. It took a lot to make him feel small these days but, Christ, did Rollins ever have what it took.

"You're gonna take me so good, baby boy. Gonna be so tight and wet and open for me. Bet I can have you sobbing for me to let you cum in five minutes."

Rumlow had four fingers inside him now and was teasing at his dripping rim with his thumb.

Steve felt like he was on fire, like his skin was going to melt and run off his bones from the heat inside of him.

Rollins leaned back against the couch and pulled Steve down by his throat, gripping one hard thigh to keep it in place until the supersoldier was bowed over the STRIKE commander's long, hard body. He panted as Rollins spread his own legs, sandwiched between Steve's, to arch the younger man's back and present his hole more completely and obscenely to Rumlow where he knelt below them.

Steve felt tears building in his eyes and blurring his vision. "Please, don't," he mumbled, words thick and slow on his tongue.

When he felt Brock's hand pushing and pushing and, _fuck_, pushing into him he couldn't be sure if it was bigger or smaller than Rollins' cock but he did know that it was too much and too big and he couldn't even make his mouth move to make words. His body was draped limply over Rollins. His swollen, stupid muscles were completely useless, just like the drooling hole of his mouth.

***

Sometimes they let the Asset be a little bit human again. Leave it out of the freezer long enough and the programming would start to fail, memories coming back like mold growing on a room temperature cheesecake. At a week and a half outside of cryo it was reliably savage and snarling and had to be constantly restrained to prevent escape attempts.

Once the placid surface was gone and it was offering very creative advice for the ways in which its handlers could go fuck themselves the Asset became useful as something other than an assassin or a toy. It became a near-perfect subject for experimentation.

They needed it human because the most pressing tests were how to make it inhuman again. Quickly.

This had been _interesting _to study before Rogers came out of the ice, but after another super soldier was discovered it was _imperative _to know how to incapacitate and control one.

To date the most effective means they had of regaining control over an erratic Asset was Compound 267.

The drug was brilliant in its simplicity, and horrifying for the same reason. All that it did was cause the body to overproduce oxytocin and serotonin when skin-to-skin contact was initiated.

In small doses it made the Asset biddable; since 2012 small amounts of Compound 267 were included in its NG tube nutritional fluid.

In large doses the thing became incapacitated with pleasure, hazy and moaning, staying wherever you put it so long as you kept a hand on it. 10mg daily went into its food. 200mg turned it into a kitten.

Brock had put 500mg into Rogers' coffee and the super soldier was doing a shockingly good impression of a blow-up doll, except that a blow-up doll wouldn't have a red, leaking prick that was practically begging to be touched as he collapsed into Jack's lap and panted against his shoulder.

***

Before Brock started fingering Rogers open he dug in his pocket for one more tool from the Asset handling kit. He knelt down behind Steve, between Jack's legs, and stared adoringly before he ran his hands under the thin white material of the super soldier's shirt and pushed it up over his impossible shoulders. Rogers shuddered at the contact, mewling as Brock's fingers traced over his skin and whimpering when Brock soothed his fingers over the nape of his neck, leaving behind a small, nearly invisible dermal patch.

Nobody wanted the Asset to have too many memories of what they had done to it or what it had done for them so they'd found something less invasive than the chair, a tool that could be used in-mission when all you needed was an RPG instead of an operative. Make it more mindless than it started, aim, and release, all thanks to a sticky little drug that disrupted the production of GluR proteins, the chemical precursors required for memory formation.

Rogers whined as his sweats were peeled away and Brock couldn't help but feel a little bit sad about the patch. He would have dearly loved to know that Rogers would remember the helpless sob he'd released when two dry fingers were pushed into his spasming hole.

Jack would remember, though. Jack was looking down at him with something like awe and Brock preened at the attention.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?" He rocked his hips up against the warm body splayed on top of him.

"Pretty Pretty Princess here," Brock said, tugging a bottle of lube out of his pocket and slicking his hand before another two fingers forced their way into Rogers' ass, "he things you're too big for him. Wanna show him he's wrong. I wanna show him exactly how much he can take." Brock bit his lip and looked away from his work to meet Jack's eyes. "Is that okay? Can I do that for you?"

Jack smiled fondly and nodded and Brock beamed at him, pulling his fingers back to tuck his thumb in alongside them, eyes soft as he moved his arm and Rogers' breath stuttered a weak protest that couldn't prevent Brock's fist from finding its place inside of him.

"He feel good like that, honey?"

Brock nodded. "Wet, messy. But not enough." He hooked two more fingers inside of Rogers along his wrist, pulling him wider open so that a third and fourth finger could join his other hand. "Hold him open for me, baby. Spread his ass out so you can see what we're doing to him."

The delicate skin of Steve's anus wasn't torn. Yet. But the straining muscle was red and irritated and shiny with lube.

"You ever get to fuck a sloppy hole, baby?" Brock stretched up and Jack leaned down to let him bite at his mouth and suck at the glassy scarring over his soft lips. "I'm sure everything's tight when you've got a baseball bat in your jockeys. Wanna make him loose for you, wanna watch your cum leak out around you when you finish because his slutty cunt is too blown out to keep it in."

Rogers was practically catatonic so when his hips twitched at Brock's words it was probably reflex, trying to get away from the intense pressure pushing into him. But they could pretend, he and Jackie, they could imagine it was because he wanted it. Was starving for it. Was begging for it by rocking onto his hands because he wanted to be fucked out and loose.

"You're too good to me, sugar." Jack's long fingers were digging deep into Rogers' pale, round ass. "You're so sweet, helping me take care of our cock-hungry little boy. What do you get outta that? You wanna fuck him sloppy too?"

Brock nodded but stayed silent as he concentrated. He pulled his hand out past its widest point and wrapped his other hand around it, tapering his fingers down as narrow as possible, then he locked his elbows, leaned in, and let his weight do all the work for him.

Brock had never personally seen anyone take two hands in real life. Even the Asset broke down and squealed as its body tore and rejected that much penetration. Jack had shown him some double-fisting porn but Brock always figured that unrealistically small hands were involved. He'd seen a couple of ripped-open bodies on interrogation tables that indicated this wasn't something humans were really equipped for.

But when you got right down to it Rogers wasn't exactly human.

Brock didn't push or rush it. He just leaned and watched patiently as that slick-shiny asshole pulled further and further open around his joined hands until it passed its tipping point and practically sucked him in as it accepted him up to his wrists.

"Jackie," he moaned, squirming after staring for a full minute at where Rogers was wrapped around him. "Jackie, baby, help."

"What's wrong, sugar?" Rollins released Rogers' ass and reached out a hand to cup Brock's cheek.

"I didn't think this through, I'm so hard that I could fuck concrete but I can't do anything about it." Brock's hips jutted forward as he sought friction. He briefly considered humping Jack's leg since it was right there, and took a minute to savor that mental image that he would never, ever, under the pain of death allow himself to actually indulge in unless maybe Jack happened to ask for it one day, then settled for pouting up at the asshole he was doing all this work for.

Jack laughed indulgently and patted his cheek.

"Give him a couple thrusts to prime the pump for me, then pull out. We don't wanna press our luck."

As Brock started to pull back some Jack lifted Rogers' face away from where it was plastered to his shoulder and gasped at what he saw. Steve's face was red and his eyes were glassy but he didn't look unconscious so much as he looked horribly confused. He was sweating and drooling but he was also frowning, tracking movement with his eyes. He wasn't blinded by sensation, he saw what was going on. He knew what was happening to him but didn't understand why his body was reacting the way it was. He hated this, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

Jack was suddenly trying very hard not to blow his load.

Brock pressed his hands forward and Rogers keened, making Brock's eyes snap wide open in surprise.

"We got company, Jackie?"

"Yeah, he's here with us. He sees me." Like Jack was talking about a newborn, or a puppy, or some other stupid fluffy thing that couldn't keep track of what was happening from one minute to the next, like something that couldn't think but could only feel, like he was talking about exactly what they'd reduced Rogers to.

"Does it look like he likes it?"

Steve's eyelashes were spiked with moisture. His skin had moved past his normal deep pink blush into a red that indicated that he was having trouble breathing. The whites of his eyes were traced with red, making the bright blue irises stand out like they were painted on a Kewpie doll. Jack laughed.

"No, sugar, I don't think he likes it at all."

Brock smiled and leaned his weight forward again, pushing deeper into Rogers.

"Good."

***

Jack had seen a lot of incredible things in his life. He'd seen the Red Sea at dawn, bioluminescent algae in the caves of New Zealand, fireworks in China, and the Black Widow naked in the showers once. He'd seen things that were too big and real for words. And in spite of all of that the look of pure, cruel joy on Brock's face as he pulled his doubled fists out of Rogers' shaking body was a sight for the record books.

It was a red-letter day for sure.

Rogers was a mess, sweating and shaking. He was suspended in a state somewhere between solid and liquid; he was six feet of quivering jello right down to the cherry-red color creeping down his chest. And adorable squeak forced its away out of his throat as Brock's hands popped past the last point of resistance and Rogers was left gaping and cold.

"Jesus Christ, Jackie," Brock breathed, reverently. He wiped his hand on Rogers' couch and fished a StarkPhone out of one of his many pockets before turning its dumb glass eye on the wreck in Jack's lap. "Jackie, baby, pull him up, baby."

Jack indulged him, clutching Rogers thighs in his hands and curling the supersoldier higher against his chest, waiting patiently while Brock snapped a few photos.

"Baby, baby, fuck, can I put you in him? Please, honey?"

Jack grinned down at Brock, savoring his shining eyes and flushed cheeks. It was cute how much the STRIKE commander wanted to be a skirt for him sometimes, how hungry he was to take Jack in and ride him even if they both knew it was out of the question. How far he'd go to make magical moments like this happen, using Rogers as a proxy hole he could open up and spread to please Jack.

"Sure, sweetheart," Jack answered, a smile softening his scarred face. "Look at you, taking such good care of me, doing all the work for me like a good little slut. Go ahead, honey."

He felt Brock's hands on his zipper, between Rogers' splayed legs. He was probably close enough to lean in and taste that gaping entrance but Brock wasn't interested in eating the Captain out - his eyes stayed locked on Jack, hungry to please him.

He tugged at Jack's pants and boxers, easing them down his thick thighs so he could work the huge, hard cock out of its confines. One of Brock's hands left for a moment an came back wet, coating Jack and squeezing him sweetly before shifting the hefty erection with a peculiar delicacy, the kind of precision that Jack was used to seeing Brock display more in cleaning his Desert Eagle than in the passionate rage he normally brought to the bedroom. Brock hummed contentedly as he settled things where he wanted, sighing at the arrangement of Jack's cock against Rogers' shaking body.

"Okay," Brock's voice was low and throaty, "okay baby, let him down, lemme see how he looks on you."

Jack slowly relaxed his arms and felt the subsequent slide of Rogers' heat as his slack hole accommodated the penetration.

He thought his heart might stop.

He'd never felt anything like this.

Brock had been right, Jack had never found anything to stick his dick in that was anything other than drum-tight. The squishy, soft, welcoming feeling of Rogers' abused ass was a revelation.

"Oh, oh baby, I don't deserve you," Jack growled as he thrust his hips up experimentally.

And god, wasn't that something - instead of a resistant mass of straining muscle that had to be pushed down onto him as he shoved up into it there was only a sweet, soft embrace that took him and took him and never fought back.

Brock was kneeling between Jack's legs, pushing Rogers' cheeks apart and holding part of his weight so that Jack could slide him up and down his cock like a sheath. Jack knew that Brock's eyes were probably wide and wet and hungry, that he was watching the place where Jack disappeared into Rogers with a combination of reverence and wrath. He knew his boy was rock hard an hungry for the toy they were sharing.

Jack was an equal-opportunity sadist. He'd hurt whoever he could get away with hurting, up to and including Brock. But Rumlow was something else. He didn't like generic hurts, he needed something to target. He had to _mean it_ when he broke somebody.

He'd been wanting to break Rogers for a while now.

Which helped Rollins to make up his mind.

"Help me turn him around, baby," Jack said, forcing himself to go still inside of Rogers. "I want you to watch his face when you get in here with me."

***

Brock had seen a lot of fucked-up shit in his life but Steve Rogers speared on Jack's cock, facing Brock with his legs held open and his eyes terribly aware as he felt Rumlow line up with Jack to add to the stretch in his sloppy cunt was probably going to top the fucked-up shit list for a while.

Captain Goddamned America was wet from head to toe, his blonde hair dark with sweat, moisture dripping down the ridges of his ridiculous torso, and his asshole shiny with a metric fuckton of lube. His face was even worse than his hole, snot and spit and tears glazing his red cheeks. It made Brock want to jerk off in the middle of it and add to the mess but he wouldn't deny himself the opportunity to double dip into Rogers' sanctimonious ass with his favorite person in the whole wide world.

However he let could himself enjoy his least favorite person, licking sweat off the super-soldier's throat and feeding a few fingers into his hot, pink, drooling mouth. Brock couldn't help but watch Rogers' big, sad blue eyes as they scanned the room, searching for something that would explain _why _this was happening to him and skittering around unseeingly when no answers were forthcoming. He focused on the tears gathering in those eyes as he pressed against Rogers' strained entrance and let the tight sleeve of his body squeeze him against the steel-silk slab of Jack's prick.

Steve's eyes fluttered closed and a strangled whimper stopped up his throat.

"Shut up, princess," Brock panted. "You've had worse."

And he had - even together the two STRIKE commandos weren't as big around as both of Brock's hands; the bitch could take it. He could even take it without tearing, if they were careful.

Brock wasn't too interested in being careful.

He was hungry for this, he had waited. He'd listened to Roger whining on the phone, watched him wrap his arms around himself and push those big strong tits out like an invitation. Brock had been waiting for this all night and he was done being nice.

"Move for us, baby," Jack whispered. And Brock did, happy he didn't have to play at being friendly anymore.

He bucked his hips hard as Jack held Rogers' legs open and the hot, wet slide of Steve around him didn't compare to the feeling of driving against Jack's cock. He ground into the bodies beneath him and reveled in the silky hardness against the underside of his own length. It would be easy to feel inadequate next to the eighth and ninth wonders of the world (Captain Steve Rogers, miracle of science, and Jack Rollins' Cock, freak of nature) but all that Brock felt was a dark, ugly pride that these things were his. He was inside of Rogers and Jack was pulling those golden thighs wide and taut, spreading him open like an offering. Cap's face was a beautiful disaster and Jack's eyes were riveted onto Brock's expression, staring at him with the kind of reverence most people reserved for stained glass saints.

It would be easy to feel inadequate, but with Jack looking at him like that Brock just felt like the second biggest swinging dick in the world getting himself off with the first biggest.

Jack was squinting his eyes closed and chewing his lip, overwhelmed and adorable. He wasn't used to being inside of things. Every once in a while he'd rub off on Brock's clenched thighs, and they took the Asset for a ride whenever it was out of storage, but being surrounded by pulsing, tight flesh on all sides was still a novel enough sensation that he never lasted very long. With Brock nudging up against him, a wet kidleather slide of hot, veiny muscle, Jack didn't even have it in him to move; he just let Brock take the reins and thrust into him until the pressure under the head inside of Rogers was too much and he let himself go with a sigh, the hard planes of his face softening into something like ecstasy. Brock watched the euphoria wash over him and drank his smile in like a blessing.

Feeling Rollins finish is what did it for Brock. He'd never say it out loud but making Jack happy, getting down on his knees and doing the work for him, got Brock hot like nothing else. So he was a service slut, who cared?

Those thoughts went off like flashbulbs in his head during the seconds between Jack's orgasm and his own. He bit down on Rogers' perfect pink tit as he came, bringing blood to the surface and stifling a howl.

Brock and Jack came down together, gazing deep into each other's eyes and feeling the dripping mess seep out of Steves' trembling body as he shivered, dividing and encasing them.

***

It was like coming up from under deep water. Words echoed and rumbled instead of ringing, light shifted in the wind. What seemed like a long time after he was aware that he should be aware Steve picked his head up from where it was resting against Rollins' chest and looked around.

Based on the light it was late afternoon. He was in his bed, Rollins in front of him and Rumlow curled against his back, without a stitch of clothing in sight.

He had the distinct feeling that there was something he should know. Something he was missing. It felt odd, unfamiliar in the wake of the serum which never let him walk away from his memories.

He frowned and concentrated and got flashes of hands biting and the feeling of flesh on flesh. He focused harder and thought he remembered blood.

And crying.

Him crying.

He relaxed and put his head back down into the warm pile of bodies surrounding him, touching him all over, warming his skin. When he closed his eyes he heard a train and saw spread fingers reaching out for him, straining for hopeless inches.

Wide blue eyes.

An open mouth.

A cold winter.

Gone.

Steve sighed in the warmth of his bedroom and made a choice, damn the serum and his useless, torturous memory.

The truth is that forgetting's an art, and Steve has always been an artist.


End file.
